


Claws and Dreams and also Fire

by nic_takes_Ls (nic_L)



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 'Villain' Wilbur Soot, (shouldn't be graphic, :), Aftermath of Possession, Alternate Universe - Demons, Angst, Body Horror, But also, DREAMON AU, Demonic Possession, Dream plays a bigger role that you'd think and it isn't what you expected, Dreamon Hunter Fundy, Dreamon Hunter Quackity, Dreamon Hunter Sapnap, Dreamon Hunter Tommy, Dreamon Hunter Tubbo, Dreamon Hunters, Dreamons, Epistolary, Exorcisms, Fire, Gen, Mental Instability, No Villain Wilbur Soot, Not Canon Compliant, Pogtopia, Possessed Wilbur Soot, Rituals, THAT'S RIGHT-, There is minecraft level fantasy violence, Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, Wilbur Soot-centric, and, and also, bc he's like. possessed, don't worry!!), l'manberg, minor possession of other characters :), past possession :0, references to some of Wilbur's past videos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27250255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nic_L/pseuds/nic_takes_Ls
Summary: Ever since he moved here, (the festival, a night of blood, and chaos, and red, white, and blue fire) Tubbo’s been watching Wilbur carefully.He’d known that the man had gone insane from Tommy’s fearful rambling to the proof in his and Wilbur’s pandering conversation and merciless plot, but it was something about how the way Wilbur moved was off, too. The way his fists curled and were held closer to his body, the pain that seemed to plague his spine when he moved too fast, and-Tubbo glances down at the book he was reading. At the open page.'How to Identify Possible Occultic Possession.'----Paused/unfinished but im reworking the plot into a oneshot owo
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 103
Kudos: 455





	1. Prologue; or I'm So Sorry That You Have To Have A Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue - Wilbur POV

There must be something wrong with the mirror. Wilbur stares into it and it into him, all oak-toned eyes and loam-tinted hair. But once again, Wilbur bares his teeth and-There it is.

In the spot where he’d normally have a pearly canine, a giant fucker of a fang, curved and hooked, lays.

There’s one on each side, and they sit heavy in his mouth, pressing up against his tongue and aching as they’ve slowly gotten longer. It’s just one of the strange things he’s been noticing for a while now.

Like the way his nails seem to burn and grow rather fast, his spine’s recent spasming at inopportune times, the odd aches under his skin at the sides of his head. The times he’s been somewhere, talked to someone and doesn’t remember how or when he got there.

“It’s just stress. We’ve been under a lot lately.” Wilbur turns away from the mirror and to the window of L’Manberg, free and calm. The fighting was over, the battles done, and Wilbur was so relieved. The last few days before the end, he’d been second-guessing every plan, deliberating and worried about who to trust, waking in the night after being besieged by nightmares and memories. But now, now everything was good and fine and warm.

Except for the growing pains under his skin. And those odd little intrusive thoughts- what ifs- that don’t sound like something he’d think at all.

  
  
_Should he hold an election, validate his post?_  
  
Hmm. He’ll have to think more on it.

  
  
Wilbur grabs his coat and tugs it over his shoulder, snatching up his hat and tilting it up on his head. The familiar, worn blue leather of his journal is dropped into his satchel with a quill and jar of ink. He does not look at the mirror.

  
  
He does not remember looking at the mirror, or the fangs in his smile, or, from earlier that morning, the sheep he tore apart with the claws lying under his fingers and licking off the blood before smearing it in a language he should not know how to read.

  
  
Wilbur decides to ask what Tommy might think of holding an election.


	2. Chapter 1; or >:(

Dang it. Wilbur’s off his rocker again.

Tubbo bites his lip and watches from his post on top of Pogtopia’s entrance as Wilbur exits from the hidden door directly beneath him. The books in his lap slide to the ground as he shifts.

Ever since he moved here, (the festival, a night of blood, and chaos, and red, white, and blue fire) Tubbo’s been watching Wilbur carefully. He’d known that the man had gone insane from Tommy’s fearful rambling to the proof in his and Wilbur’s pandering conversation and merciless plot, but it was something about how the way Wilbur moved was off, too. The way his fists curled and were held closer to his body, the pain that seemed to plague his spine when he moved too fast, and-

Well, Wilbur’s eyes were brown.

They would match the colour of the dusty-warm leather of his favoured coat. The colour of freshly cut oak, of foxes’ ears, and also of dirt. Nice dirt, of course. Tilled with a diamond hoe, or something.

Except, Tubbo notices, they didn’t.

Wilbur’s eyes were a much more grey shade of brown, almost as if it weren’t brown at all and was grey. Tubbo found himself hoping to get a better look at his pupils tomorrow.

But now, now, Wilbur is stepping from the concealed doorway and closes it back silently. He’s still wearing his beanie and coat combo, a constant staple for the past few weeks, it seems, and from his vantage point, Tubbo cannot see his face.

The man walks forward slowly, peering around the wood, then turning his gaze on the skeleton horse in the safety ditch/stable thing no one’s bothered to really explain to Tubbo. As if sensing those newly grey eyes, the blind skeletal horse shakes her head and makes a noise vaguely fear-filled. She rears when Wilbur leans and inch closer, and a faint whisper of a chuckle is heard.

Tubbo grips the grass under hand tightly when Wilbur’s laughter sounds; Too much of it has been heard when people fight down in the stony ravine.

“Well.” The slight simpering tone in Wilbur’s voice throws Tubbo for a complete and utter loop. Wilbur never shows a sign of even seeing him, how did he-

“You, my darling pet, need to stop fighting, or else everyone else is going to start fighting. You’ve seen them, you’ve felt the words slither from our tongue, haven’t you, Wilbur?”

Tubbo really didn’t expect this level of insanity so fast, and was completely being thrown off, what with the completely nonsensical monologue Wilbur is having. He brushes his pale hair from his eyes to peer closer. “Good, you’re learning to shut up.” Wilbur continues, then proceeds to turn from the horse and wheel around abruptly, eyes tilting up.

  
  
Tubbo flinches and flattens himself against the ground, while shuddering internally. It feels as though cold water was poured down his neck. There’s something about Wilbur’s wild and sudden movements that looks alien on his long limbs.

“Hmm.” Tubbo hears Wilbur into the forest, grass softening the sounds of his steps.

When there is no more footsteps, Tubbo picks himself up onto his knees and brings his hands to his chest.

Wilbur’s gaze felt-

Familiar.

Like when Tubbo had pissed around with the grimoires and summoned a minor imp with Fundy, and they had to chase it down before it got out of hand. The same piercing cold, the shudders that rocked his spine-

Tubbo’s breath catches in his chest. He turns his head slowly to the side. Glances down had been reading before Wilbur came at all.

The open page, the start of a chapter, yellowed and scrawled in a faded black ink.

_'How to Identify Possible Occultic Possession'_

It is now night, the sky awash in a chandelier of stars, no moon to be seen. Tubbo has the grimoire, all bound in a crackly, peach-toned leather, tucked in his bag at his waist. After reading and subsequently having a minor breathing issue solved quickly by closing said book, he’d gone back inside the walls of Pogtopia and ate the dinner Tommy and Niki had prepared, with Tommy’s offering of potato stew a bit more salty than needed and Tommy himself glaring at Techno longer than necessary.

It’s so strange, trying to walk the same narrow halls with a man who’s face still scares you in your dreams. That initial pause the both of you take, then Techno’s inevitable step to the side, not meeting Tubbo’s eyes. Tubbo walks past and they both carry on their way.

Tubbo doesn’t blame Techno, not really, because he’d been under that pressure, the same pressure of expectations and peers and the weight of horns pressing on your head. But Tubbo had been eased into it. Techno was called and that close, Tubbo saw the fear and confusion in his eyes. It’s just hard not to want to step away.

Tommy still has a grudge for Techno that Tubbo won’t carry, but is slowly breaking it down, instead worrying over Wilbur and getting news from Quackity.

After dinner, Tubbo hung around Tommy, mining out a bit more and just enjoying being around each other easier than they had in weeks. Then Tommy went to sleep, his room just beside his, and Tubbo scaled the unrailed staircases and waited outside, for Wilbur.

Tubbo took out a torch and lit it, then let it sit at his side while grabbing out the peach grimoire and another stack of books he’d found abandoned in a nearly hidden room that seemed like a study, an oak desk coated in dust and these books in a pile a top, the walls unfinished stone and tucked half-between a mining hall.

When he’d first found it, there was a pot of ink spilt over the desk and a nearly empty notebook, the front page of which was now drenched in ink. It was obviously Wilbur’s, a makeshift study that in no way measured up to his previous standards.

It was strange no one had seen Wilbur write anything for sometime.

Tubbo pulled out that same stained notebook from his bag and resting it in the grass beside the peach grimoire. To the second, empty page, he penned ‘Wilbur being haunted by demon?? here is why:’ And then paused, unable to produce evidence.

A blot of ink dripped into the grass where Tubbo held the quill loosely.

“He’s just gone all weird. And- doubtful, and-”

He looked back at the grimoire, and to the quill.

_Item 1: -Doutful of own ideas (keeps changing his mind, like blowing the place up)_

_2: -I think Wilbur keeps forgetting where he is sometimes, like when he asked Techno to spar and then didn’t rmember when it was time._

_3: -Grey eyes, not brown >:(_

And the list went on.   
  
Tubbo was comparing his list with some of the symptoms in the book when his torch went out as if snuffed.

He blinked in the sudden darkness and then snapped to attention when a _snap_ of a twig sounded.

  
  
“Wilbur? Is that you?” He asked cautiously. There was no rattle of bones or moans of a zombie, and creepers moved silently aside from their hisses.

  
  
“T- Tubbo?”

  
  
Wilbur walked into Tubbo’s dimmed vision. He seemed disoriented, and his hair was wet, and he was moving his hand from his head as he talked.

  
  
“What are you doing out here so late?”

Tubbo shoved the books at his knees into his bag and stood.

  
  
“Me? What are _you_ doing out here, Wilbur? Why are you wet?” He asked gently.

Wilbur didn’t even have his beanie on, it was in his hand, clutched loosely in a fist.

“Um. I- I was taking a bath, in the river.” Wilbur did not sound confident at all.

Tubbo nodded. “Alright then. Come back inside with me?”

“Yeah.”

Tubbo led the way, Wilbur following in almost a daze. The entire time the blond headed teen stared at Wilbur’s tall, unsure frame. They descended the stairs in an empty silence, not uncomfortable or cozy, but as if Wilbur didn’t even notice it. He used to fill silences with hums, conversations under his breath, asking some question that would eventually lead Tubbo into a laughing fit. He was silent.

“I’m going to bed. You probably should too, Wilbur.”

Wilbur nodded slowly.

“Right. Goodnight, Tubbo.” His voice was so gentle and sounded almost so like his crinkle-eyed good-nights from back in L’Manberg, Tubbo almost choked.

  
  
“Night.”

Tubbo blew out the small torch on the wall and stepped into the shadows of the hall, then turned around.

Wilbur had not gone to his hall either, but was looking down at his hand, curled in a fist. The hand opened, and every finger was a claw, red-tinted and long, eerily unnatural and yet wildly feral. Wilbur’s face became horrified, brown eyes wide, and then it was smooth. He blinked and his hand was at his waist one again. His eyes gone focused and lashes low, and Wilbur sauntered to his rooms.

Tubbo stumbled off, gasping, to correct his notes.

Wilbur was not being haunted. He was possessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAAA chapter one and Tubbo is in fear


	3. Chapter 2; or Heart For Brains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we get dialogue
> 
> woo

“Um. Tommy?” 

  
  
Tommy, from his perch atop a fallen log, axe twirling in his hand, met Tubbo’s gaze. 

“Yeah, Big T?”

Tubbo hesitated, then pictured Wilbur’s unsteady stance, beanie in hand and hair damp and curling.

“ _Why_ , did Wilbur go crazy, like- Why?” He feels his voice falter on the question. 

Tommy’s eyes become tinged with a distant look, as if remembering.

“Tubbo- Wilbur- It was so strange, at first, when he told me. He sounded so confused, and then it was like a switch, y’know? He just-”

Tommy slumps and sighs at the ground, running a hand through his hair and leaving it rumpled.

“Wilbur just went off, I guess. Said that he didn’t trust anyone- not even you! Said that everyone was pretending to be on our side, he was so different and said that I was scared! Said that I was the scared one. But he.”

Tubbo bites his lip and drops his axe onto the floor. Sits beside Tommy and peers up at him.

“I think, I think Wilbur was scared, alright?”

“Yeah.”

Tommy raises his head again and the sight of his dejected, stormcloud-blue eyes makes the words easier to get out of Tubbo’s chest.

“Different, you said. Scared. _Strange._ ” Tubbo reaches into his satchel and drops both the notebook with the page covered in ink and the weathered grimoire into Tommy’s hands.

“What-”

“You said it was like a switch, Wilbur’s anger, right? Well, I’ve noticed that too. I’ve been watching him, and Wilbur seems to forget where he is, what he’s doing, after that switch. Every time when he gets mad, and angry, and says he wants to blow everything up, afterwards, Tommy, Wilbur looks so confused.”

Tubbo leans over and begins flipping to the page he wants in the grimoire.

“What does that mean.” Tommy’s face, baffled and eyebrows taut, changes to one of recognition. “Isn’t this one of Wilbur’s ghost books?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo nods before finding the chapter he wants and splaying it open onto Tommy’s lap.

“Yeah, these are from back in L’Manberg. I used to hate it when he tried to talk to those ghosts, but you and F-Fundy always played along.” Then Tommy notices the serious look in Tubbo’s face. “What?”

Tubbo doesn’t speak at first and gestures to the open pages. First at the grimoire, then to his list of symptoms.

“Tubbo.” Tommy’s voice is low, a warning.

“I’m not joking.”

“ _Tubbo!_ ”

“Shut up. Look, since when has Wilbur ever wanted to use TNT? Fire? He’s been scared of fire since the war, and TNT long before we met him!”

Tubbo pushes himself to his feet and starts to pace.

“He doesn’t sleep, _everyone_ here knows that, he _never_ sleeps, do you remember the day before yesterday? You said something about him blowing up L’Manberg again and he said ‘Why would I do that?’ You said ‘Oh yeah, whatever,’ but you didn’t see his face! Wilbur didn’t know! The day before that? Wilbur literally forgot where he was, in the ravine! I thought I was going mad!”

Tommy leaps to his feet and the books fall onto the grass. “And you still are!”

“NO!” Tubbo bares his teeth, whirls around to face his best friend. “No.” More quietly this time. “Tommy. I snuck out yesterday. Wilbur came out and started talking to himself.”

Tommy’s expression is more gentle now, indignant but also scared. “He’s always talked to himself, always.”

“It wasn’t him telling himself a joke, or even a madman’s rambling. It wasn’t.” With a weak grip, Tubbo grabs Tommy’s shoulder and makes them both sit once more. 

“Wilbur’s- Wilbur’s _body_ , was talking to _Wilbur_. Said that it needed Wilbur to stop fighting? Something about making everyone else fight, and told the like- invisible Wilbur, to shut up.” 

Tommy is staring at Tubbo. Tubbo stares at Tommy. Tommy nods, barely visible.  _Continue._

“I went back outside, later, you went to bed and I wanted to see Wilbur. He- He came back, all wet and confused. He didn’t know why he was there, and when I asked he said he thought he took a bath in the river. I think he did. I don’t think _he_ knows he did. Or why.

“We came inside, and he hesitated, but I was hiding and watched- watched-”

“Tubbo?”

Tubbo heaves a breath, and it squeezes his throat like-

“Claws. He had claws, on his hand. They’re long, and curved- And they were still pink with blood! And Wilbur was terrified, I saw it, of his own hand and then he wasn’t!”

Tubbo stands once again and grabs his own arms to his chest.

“The switch, you see? So- He’s possessed, I think. I don’t know exactly by what. I thought it might have been a haunting, something just following him around, but no- Possessed.”

He turns to his friend’s unreadable gaze.

“Tommy?”

Tommy picks up the books from the ground and scans the text. “You- you think Wilbur might be possessed, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“’Kay.”

Tubbo blinks, uncertain. “What?”

Tommy gives a shaky smile and tilts his head in a familiar movement. “I believe you, big man. Wilbur- I hadn’t gone into that much detail, but yeah. He’s been so different.”

“You believe me.”

  
  
Tommy pulls the books to his lap and looks down at them.

  
  
“Well, yeah, but I’m going to need some proof of this shit eventually-“

  
  
Tommy is cut off by Tubbo slamming himself into his arms.

  
  
“Thank you.”

  
  
Tommy pulls Toby back into sitting on their shared log and seems desperate to cease the emotional part of their conversation.

  
  
“Yeah- Right, uh, Big Man.” He stutters.

  
  
Tubbo feels his lips curl into a smile.

“Thanks, Tommy.”

  
  
“RIGHT.” Tommy deflects and his eyes catch on Tubbo’s handwriting of his notebook.

  
  
“Your spelling is shite.”

  
  
Tubbo knows his smile is only getting wider.

  
  
“I’m dyslexic, and you know this.”

  
  
“And you’re a dumbarse.”

  
  
“Prick.”

  
  
“Wanker.”

  
Tonight, Tubbo and Tommy both slip outside past Niki and Techno into the crisp air of the woods. The oak tree’s natural camouflage of their hidden home casts long shadows and every leaf rustles in the wind.

  
  
Tubbo frowns as he notices Tommy’s overgrown flaxen blond hair is also mussed by the breeze.

  
  
“Do y’think Niki would trim your hair if you asked?”

  
  
Tommy glances at the offending too-long strands dripping into his eyes and nearly trips over a tree root.

  
  
“If she does, I’m asking if she could cut it shorter than usual so it wouldn’t get so long as fast.”

  
  
“Why- Nevermind.”

  
  
If Tubbo finished this thought, it would turn into an argument, and from there into shouting that would inevitably give their position.

They end up hauling each other into a tall oak tree with a convenient leafy branch underneath their seats that makes them neigh impossible to spot without being deliberately searched for. Apparently, Tommy likes this tree for ambushing, whatever that may imply.

  
  
Now they’re using it for spying.

  
  
Surveillance.

  
  
Espionage?

  
  
Watching for Wilbur to show up and perform some sort of dramatic and demonically incriminating act to reveal exactly what type of demon he is?

  
  
That one is a lot more accurate.

  
  
Tubbo fidgets against the soft bark of the tree and swings his legs into Tommy’s, who kicks back.

  
  
Tommy sighs and leans his head back against the tree trunk.

  
  
“How long, exactly, did it take for Wilbur to show up?”

  
  
“Quiet,” Tubbo kicks his friend’s knee a little rougher than needed. “I didn’t really know if he’d turn up at all, actually. He might not at all. And that was just at the entrance, we could be able to see what Wilbur’s actually doing out there.”

  
  
Tommy groans and shifts again on the wide branch.

  
  
“Well, I hope whatever demon is piloting Wilbur’s tall-ass body would fucking-“

  
  
Tubbo spots a movement in the undergrowth below and smacks Tommy’s arm repeatedly.

  
  
“Shut up shut up shut up-“

  
  
The movement becomes clear as a fox running past and Tommy turns a scalding glare on Tubbo.

  
  
A tiny wrinkle of indignation appears on Tubbo’s nose as he bristles defensively. “Hey! I thought-“

  
  
A distant laugh, the same dark one that echos in Tubbo’s memory of The Pit is heard.

  
  
Both boys go silent, and lean further out to see below.

  
  
Through the leaves, a figure obviously Wilbur’s makes its way directly under their view, his trench coat flared in the breeze and the stray locks of hair not under a beanie brushed to the side.

  
  
Wilbur is facing away from Tubbo and Tommy, at first, and he appears to be holding something close to his chest.

  
  
Then Wilbur turns, and Tubbo sways with revulsion. Tommy grabs his arm tightly, either keeping Tubbo upright or steadying himself.

  
  
What appears to be a small heart, ( _humans’ hearts are larger than that, aren't they, must be an animal's,_ _ **please**_ _let that be an animal heart_ ) still dripping and speared on Wilbur’s wet claws, is then buried in a patch of dirt and with those same inhuman claws, is drawn over in an intricate sigil.

  
  
Whatever is in Wilbur’s body then stands and holds one of those talon-like hands open and a jet of red-hot flame dances in his fingers.

  
  
Tubbo’s ears are buzzing and his hands feel numb.

  
  
Wilbur leaves to the river.

  
  
“Oh fuck.” Tubbo shudders and hunches in on himself and tugs at his neck. “Oh god.”

  
  
“What was he saying?”

  
  
Tubbo looks at Tommy for the first time since the start of that horrible scene, and those bottle-blue eyes are horrified.

  
  
“What the fuck was Wilbur saying, Tubbo?”

  
  
“What? I-I didn’t hear, it was all buzzing-“

  
  
“When he was fucking burying that heart, man, it was half-growling and shit!”

  
  
Tubbo pulls the grimoire from his bag and searches for whatever the fuck just happened. Tommy continues to process aloud.

  
  
“And the- the claws were real! They were fucking sharp, is what they were-" Tommy lets out an only mildly deranged laugh. “And the fire, Wilbur freaks over fire.”

  
Tubbo catalogues those things;

  
_  
Bodily mutations/metamorphosis due to occultic presence.  
  
Summoning/control over flame.  
  
Some kind of ritual in infernal?_

  
Tubbo slides from the tree branch and Tommy drops a slime block to land on.

  
  
Both on the ground and sitting in the grass, lantern in Tommy’s lap, Tubbo marks potential suspects and excludes others, feeling like either some kind of demonic doctor or psychiatrist.

  
  
There is one entry, closer to the end that makes him pause.

  
  
“Oh god.”

  
  
“What.” Tommy shifts his weight to see from Tubbo’s perspective and read, but Tubbo cuts him off.

  
  
“This demon ranks as very dangerous and high in the severity scale; possession is rare and can be total after a long enough progression. They start off by lurking around, often dormant until disturbed. Then, they will feed off of nightmares to gain energy and proceed to influence the doubts and perception of the afflicted until they may gain a psyche-tangible form, able to take control of the host and erase memories created during possession.

  
“They slowly affect the host’s bodily form, most recognizably with semi-retractable claws, force the host out of their own perception, and preform blood rituals to keep a regular supply of their demonic abilities, most recognizably fire, in their host’s forms until total possession.”

  
  
Tubbo is breathing, but it feels like a rock is tied to his heart, tugging him to an early grave.

  
  
“Tubbo. What are _they_.”

  
  
Tubbo passes the spread book the Tommy, who mouths the name with a reverent fear.

  
  
“A Dreamon, then innit?”


	4. Chapter 3; or GOOD *clap* FURRY *clap*

From there, it’s very hard to figure out what to do next. There’s countless pages and blocks of text explaining the various aspects and variations of of rituals, all either generic or corresponding to very specific things;

  
  
“There’s three different fucking sigil-alphabet-things that are used depending on the colour of the oni’s horns.” Tommy’s eyes are wide as he relays this info to Tubbo. “Big T, how the _hell_ are we going to make a working ritual for the most powerful demon that needs an incredibly custom tailored exorcism? We literally build towers out of cobblestone. _This_ is never going to work.”

  
  
Tubbo shares in Tommy’s baffled sentiments, until he realizes and spits out;

  
  
“Wait! You’re the one who builds cobblestone intimidation towers! And-and I exorcismed- exorcised, an imp before, the one me and Fundy summoned.”

  
  
Tubbo leans forwards into the book on his lap, and Tommy’s bed creaks from where he sits on it.

  
  
Tommy jabs his elbow into Tubbo’ chest and gives a delighted, slightly mocking grin.

  
  
“So you both summoned and killed the demon? Wasn’t that when you rushed into my room in L’Manberg, stole my redstone torch and then Fundy came in and threw water all over me? And you both begged me not to tell Wilbur.”

  
  
Tubbo flicks his eyes up from where he’s reading and grimaces.

  
“Yeah. But, the water was important, me and Fundy were wearing water-logged boots, which kept us safe, but we might’ve contaminated you. Fundy figured all that out.”

  
  
Tommy begins having a minor rant of his own, screwed up face and boisterously fake anger, but it fades to a buzz in Tubbo’s ears.

  
  
Because-

  
  
That’s right.

  
  
Fundy has been the one to figure out the specifics of the ritual, even if it was much easier than this. But Fundy had betrayed L’Manberg, burnt the flag, disowned Wilbur in front of him.

  
  
Tubbo bites his lip and wonders how much Fundy had decided he’d really hated Wilbur, if the fox couldn’t be convinced to save him.

  
  
The buzzing in his ears grew harsher, and Tubbo stands and turns to the door without even processing he was, and the door opened.

  
  
Wilbur was stood there, hands in pockets, grey eyes flicking to Tubbo and then Tommy, before settling back onto Tubbo’s own.

  
  
“Hullo, boys.”

  
  
Tommy jolts to attention, his face still and mildly shocked, eyes flitting over Wilbur as if seeing him for the first time.

  
  
“Wilbur.” He nods.

  
  
“Hello, Wilbur.” Tubbo greets, attempting to appear at ease from his strange alert position.

  
  
“Tommy. Quackity’s up top.” Wilbur’s words are cut and jagged in his throat.

  
  
Tommy hesitantly rises to his feet and tugs on the hem of his tunic. “Aren’t you coming?”

  
  
With a tug of his beanie down on his head, Wilbur places his gloved hands back into his pockets.

  
  
“No.” He turns his head to the wall and stares. “No,” he reiterates. “I’m busy.” He lies.

  
  
Tommy winces, and his boots scuff over the stone floor. “Right. See ya, Big T.”

  
  
“Bye.” Tubbo knows his face is anything but as ease, but his mind is racing. “Have fun.”

  
  
Wilbur is already in the hall, and Tommy stands, facing over his shoulder, halfway through the door. “Yeah. Yeah.”

  
  
The door shuts and Tubbo runs his hand through his hair and turns in a circle.

  
  
“If- If I can talk to Fundy...”

  
  
It could work. Maybe.

  
  
If Fundy isn’t completely on Schlatt’s side or even if he just doesn’t want his home to be blown to bits by his own father, he might be convinced to help him and Tommy.

  
  
“Yeah.” Tubbo lunges for his backpack and heads for his own tunnels.

  
  
  
Luckily, Tubbo never had a chance to show the Manbergians his extended tunnels, and of course, there were a few hidden ones. One of them, accessible by diving into a water channel after crawling via trapdoor under the pavement, leads to a route that exits near a much more quiet area of the country.

  
  
Shovel dusted with dirt after both digging his way up and then covering it again, Tubbo emerges into the sunlight from the shadow of a tall oak tree. Peering into the horizon, Tubbo sees the obsidian and magma flag casting a shadow over the valley of Manberg.

  
  
Tubbo tugs the black hoodie he’s wearing further over his head and stays near the foliage and low to the ground, scanning the scene for signs of people.

  
  
And lo and behold, a figure, silhouetted uniquely and with a recognizable head crowned with two pointed ears of a mask is seen exiting his own house.

  
  
Tubbo’s breath hitches and he takes out his crossbow, primed and ready to fire and with a fingertip wet with ink, scrawls a crude ‘bee’ on the side of an arrow.

  
  
Fundy walks forwards to Tubbo’s left and with shaky, shaky hands, raises his loaded crossbow, and shoots it, a _whizz_ and then full _thwack_ of the arrow singing in Tubbo’s ears.

  
  
He opens his eyes, half aware that he closed them, and sees Fundy shocked still and gawping at the arrow embedded into the tree beside him, barely inches between his nose and the arrow.

  
  
Fundy shakes out of his stupor and peers closer at the inscription left in the nearly missed weapon.

  
  
He gasps, and Tubbo prays to Prime itself that the fox doesn’t call Schlatt or hunt him down.

  
  
“Tubbo? Tubbo, where are you?” Fundy hisses in a whisper, sliding his half-face fox mask up on his head and crouching.

  
  
Tubbo hesitates, still unsure as to what Fundy may do.

  
  
“Tubbo, man, it’s not safe for you around here!”

  
  
He steels himself and walks into Fundy’s line of sight, sliding the crossbow into a looser stance.

  
  
“I’m right here, Fundy.” Tubbo makes himself say, though his heart is jack-rabbiting and thudding between his ears.

  
  
Fundy seems frozen, until he scrambles forwards and stops when Tubbo flinches and raises his crossbow again.

  
  
“Why are you _here_ , of all places? Tubbo, this is place is so fucking dangerous for you, what the fuck? You gotta get out of here, what do you need?” Fundy pulls his mask over his nose and glances over each shoulder before taking a halting step forwards again. “What is it, Tubbo?”

“Why aren’t you telling someone, right now. Why aren’t you shooting me?”

Fundy’s eyes widen and he brings his hand up to brush his hair back.

“Tubbo- I wouldn’t-”

Tubbo takes a step forwards, crossbow still pointed at Fundy’s chest.

“You’re with Schlatt. You- you denounced Wilbur, and burned down our flag, and- and.”

He knows his hands are now shaking, weapon visibly trembling.

“Why, Fundy, why?”

Fundy takes his signature black hat off and sits on the forest floor, legs crossed.

“Because. I- I’m like you.”

Tubbo steels himself.

“Like me.”

The man on the ground before him shakes his head, red hair falling into his face.

“A spy.”

There is silence, and then Tubbo spits out;

“No, you’re not.”

“Not for Wilbur, or Tommy. Not information. Just- I was trying to get info, get Schlatt’s trust, take them down from the very core, maybe.”

Fundy sighs and takes his mask off completely.

“I should’ve helped you escape, somehow. I didn’t know that was going to happen, didn’t even think you were a spy. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not Wilbur. Not Niki. Not you.”

Tubbo lowers his bow and slides to his knees on the floor, facing Fundy.

“Who else knows? Not Niki, she thinks you’d lost it.”

“Eret does. And now you.”

Tubbo bites his lip and lowers the black hood over his head.

“Eret? Yeah, I think Tommy said something about Eret offering their help. And maybe potatoes. But Wilbur got all paranoid and didn’t want to talk.”

Fundy laughs, a pained chuckle of sorts.

“Yeah, Wilbur- I could see Wilbur not wanting to trust him. He was shaken up after all of that.”

Tubbo suddenly remembers why he’s here. Remembers the fire and claws.

“Actually that’s why I’m here.” He flicks his eyes over Fundy’s expression changing to that on a confused furrow between his brows.

“Wilbur? I- I know he’s probably upset, and you can tell him-”

“Wilbur isn’t in the mental state for that to be of use.” Tubbo interrupts, a deadpan tone.

“Mental state? What the fuck? What the fuck does that mean?”

Tubbo stares at the floor a second, nods to himself absently and pulls the pair of incriminating books out his satchel and flips to their dogeared pages.

“Wilbur wants to blow L’Manberg into tiny chunks of dust. Me and Tommy think that Wilbur’s begin possessed by a Dreamon. Here’s a list of his symptoms, and we saw him summon fire from his claws after burying a bleeding heart and doing some sigil things with it.” He makes sure to enunciate clearly and calmly. Tubbo prepares for an outburst.

“What?”

“Wilbur wants to blow Manber-”

Fundy snatches the books from Tubbo’s outstretched hands and stares wide-eyed at Tubbo’s solemn face.

“No, wait, what the fuck? Wilbur wouldn’t- Why the hell? The fuck?”

Tubbo feels his composure breaking and tries to keep it together.

“Wilbur literally, as in Tommy and Quackity have _been in there_ , has a button room, inside some hill in Manberg and it has a button that sets of the stack of TNT Dream gave him that’s now buried under all of there.”

Tubbo points to the populated portion of Manberg, gestures over the entire valley.

“He’s gone mad, keeps talking about just the most wild things, and I watched him once and saw that he was talking to himself and had claws. That’s when I started looking into it and- That’s why I’m here.”

Fundy looks shell-shocked, stunned, as if a leaf falling on his head would make him crumple to the ground.

“Fundy, we used to mess around with these occult things, you and me and Wilbur. The imp we summoned that once? You figured out how to perform the ritual, what we needed to do. I need you again.”

Fundy sighs. “Really? This- this is happening?”

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The FURRY has joined your party!]
> 
> Also yes, Fundy is a normal human with a like- venetian fox mask or smth.
> 
> I feel like this took me forever, but it was only 2 days inbetween :/
> 
> BUT I have expanded on plot a lot more and 12 chapters is probably a lie at this point. Here is a minor sneak peek using (possible) upcoming chapter summaries;
> 
> 4: Mr Duck Does Not Like Demons  
> 5: The Epistolary bit of the Fic/ Journal of The Possessed Ex-President   
> (this will be so (angsty) fun to write lol)  
> 6: So You Want To Be a Dreamon hunter;  
> 7: Hey Dude! That’s My Demon! ( :) )   
> (i am so excited for this one; plot gets deeper and i have funny lines for this) (also dream)  
> 8: oh god they got the pig too   
> (get fucked, plot)  
> 9: So you DON'T have The Blade   
>  (not what ur thinking)


	5. Chapter 4; or Demons? No Me Gusta

Tubbo clambers down the (still unrailed) stairway, an empty hooked chain swinging below and the ravine casting jagged shadows on its own walls.

He pauses under the chain, now stilling. There’s a stain on the stone floor, as if from a gas lantern had fallen.

He blinks and carries on his route to Tommy’s room, hoping the other boy is back. The door is slightly ajar and Tubbo pushes it lightly open. There, Tommy lays face-down onto his bed, sheets half kicked off and blanket on the pillows.

“Tommy! I have news.” Tubbo decides to phrase it like that. Yeah.

Tommy kicks his legs back before rolling into his back and giving a lulled, taut smile.

“Is this good or bad?”

“It’s news.”

Tubbo walks over and lays across all Tommy’s pillows. He feels Tommy’s gaze- undoubtedly like a sharpened shard of sea glass, blue and weathered and piercing.

“I talked to Fundy. He knows, now about Wilbur. And the Dreamon. And the blowing up Manberg bit.”

  
  
Tommy doesn’t respond and Tubbo doesn’t look up. The silence stretches as though a bubble until it’s popped by a slightly deranged chuckle.

  
  
“Oh god, really? I- Big Man, I told Quackity.”

  
  
Tubbo sits up and meets his friend’s bemused smile.

  
“Really?”

  
  
“Yeah! He’s absolutely skeptical, but he said he’d try to help and- shit, man, his face was hilarious, honestly. Fundy?” The last word is spoken quietly, unsure and tentative, oh so cautious.

“Fundy’s a spy.”

The words are weighty but make his chest feel lighter, relieved.

“He’s been acting- like that, you know, so Schlatt would trust him. He’s trying to take Schlatt down from the inside, or something. Fundy’s going to help us.”

Tubbo can’t help but give a weak smile, still shaky, at the idea and holds his fist out as an offering.

Tommy grins and bumps his closed hand against Tubbo’s, and laughs.

“Holy shit, man. Imagine if- if we do find something. If Wilbur stops being- Being like that.”

Tubbo sighs and smiles up at Tommy.

“I hope so. Also, Fundy should be coming to meet us tomorrow morning behind Eret’s castle. You could meet up with Quackity and take him there?”

Tommy nods, and flops back onto his bed.

“Sure.”

They sit on the unmade bed, a careful but comfortable silence, until a call of their names by Niki rouses them from their stupor.

She’s the only person in the ravine who still wears a L’Manberg coat over her clothes; Tubbo’s was taken by Schlatt, who folded it away not to be seen, Tommy’s lays dejected and bloodstained in the back of his chest. Tubbo is afraid to ask where Wilbur’s is. Or to find out.

“Tubbo, Tommy, how have you two been?” She asks as they sit around a campfire with bowls of stew in their laps.

“Mm, good. We’ve not done much, really though.” Tommy is focused on his bowl, and so Tubbo explains further.

“We went mining, found some more coal. Tommy talked to Quackity again.” Tubbo knows Tommy is flashing his flicker-blue gaze at the side of his head, and nods ever so slightly. “Where’s Wilbur and Techno?”

Niki’s eyes flutter closed for a second before she stares down at the fire and sighs. “Techno said he was breeding his horses again. I don’t know where Wilbur is.”

It’s a common occurrence.

Niki lets out a huff and picks up her emptied bowl from the floor and out of Tubbo’s and Tommy’s hands.

“You two- I’m going to bed early. Good night.” She tugs her coat closer to her with one hand and leaves.

As if Niki’s departure was a cue, hurried footsteps echo from above, and the pair of boys turn their heads to watch Wilbur skip the last step and land, panting and flushed.

His hair is a mess of curls, damp and spilling from his beanie, and a droplet of water runs down his cheek. His eyes are oak-hued and warm and so wide and searching.

“It’s late.” Wilbur is heaving, and he says this almost breathlessly.

“It-” Tubbo blinks. “It’s not even sunset yet. Wilbur-”

Wilbur grimaces and shakes his head. “No, I mean- It’s too late. I mean- I’m. Going to s-sleep.” He gives Tubbo’s eyes a searching glance, almost pleading, and whirls around, coat flaring behind him. He begins to walk to his room, but stops, still facing away. “Don’t let me stop you.” The words are slow and slurred, exhausted and yet there’s an underlying urgency. He leaves.

“What the hell was that?” Tommy’s voice is monotone, low, and Tubbo knows it’s fear there, fear sharpened into a blade- into a wall- into some semblance of a defense.

“He doesn’t want us to let him stop us.” Tubbo’s voice is fine. He understood. “He’s right. We should get some sleep, tomorrow’s a big day.”

He pulls himself to his feet and holds out a hand.

“C’mon, Tommy.”

His friend looks at his hand, then his eyes, and grabs his outstretched fingers.

They make their way to the hall where they split. Tubbo nods, and Tommy does the same before entering his room and closing the door behind him.

Tubbo’s pretty sure he’s supposed to wait. He leaves the hallway and slumps against the wall nearest the pit. He lights a small lantern sitting on the floor and the shadows it casts would be scary if Tubbo weren’t waiting for something that is more.

A flicker of blue light jolts Tubbo out of his almost-a-doze; there is no echoes of footsteps, no a sound, but Wilbur appears from the darkness and is lit by the soul torch in his hand. About three feet away, Wilbur sinks and crosses his legs. His shoulders look heavy, and Tubbo does not know how to carry them. The torch is dropped onto the stone floor and rolled until it lays in between the two floor-dwelling men. Wilbur looks blue.

“You should leave. Take Niki and Tommy- You’re here. He’s safe with you.” It’s said as if Wilbur thinks he’s unsafe. He’s probably right.

“I- Techno will probably stay. I don’t really know, he doesn’t want this, but he isn’t going to leave either.”

Tubbo’s breath catches and claws at his throat before he can speak.

“Wilbur. We can’t leave.”

The desolate man nods, slow.

“Yeah.”

“We _won’t_ leave.” Tubbo whispers, a different meaning.

Wilbur looks pained and his eyes seem to flicker before he lowers his gaze, lashes catching on his bangs.

“Yeah. You should, though.”

Tubbo wants to refute, to fight, to give Wilbur a fucking hug, he looks like he needs one. But as Wilbur stands, he winces inwards and reaches for his head.

“You really _should._ ” Wilbur straightens up and is heaving, chest rattling and hands fists. He pulls the coat around himself tighter, curling his back and shaking his head. “And _don’t let me stop you_. It’s late.” The last words are pained and fading. “Please.”

Tubbo’s back stiffens and he jumps to his feet, before running down to the hall and slamming his bedroom door shut. He flings himself onto his bed and under the covers before letting the gathered, stinging tears in his eyes fall.

“It’s too late,” Wilbur, unbeknownst to Tubbo, whimpers as he sinks to the floor in his own room, feeling himself slip closer to sleep, to dreaming and bleeding and fire and his spine is pained in every breath he drags into his lungs. He bites his own tongue on accident, fangs digging into his gums, and the hands he’s running into his hair are tipped with claws. His shoulders burn and he goes dark.

“Once again, this is not the strangest conversation I’ve ever had, but it’s probably the most serious.” Quackity is armed with quips and jokes and grins for this meeting, but every single one falters or falls short. Tubbo feels bad for the guy; He’d come for revolution and found a madman, only for the madman to actually be possessed by a demon. His eyes flicker from face to face and his smiles often become grimaces as he reads over the array of information in front of him.

Fundy, meanwhile, is more solemn, but seems relieved every time there is a dumb joke, or one of Tommy’s snarky insults is muttered whether to the book he’s poring over or himself.

“Like, how do you tell the difference between levels of possession? Level 1 to 100? Stats? On a scale from 1 to 10, how possessed are you feeling today, sir?” Quackity slips into a cheesy falsetto and flips the page.

“I wish.” Tommy mumbles and narrows his eyes at the fading text he shares with Fundy.

Fundy steps back and shoves the book closer to the blond haired boy, turning to address Tubbo.

“Hey, if this one’s Wilbur’s, do you have any others of his grimoires?” His mask is flat on the table and half of his bangs are in the air from where he repeatedly swiped his hand through them.

Tubbo blinks and grins. “Actually, yeah. I hadn’t gone through them yet, the one had a lot of information already and I already struggled a bit. Here, let me get them.”

He steps to where his satchel is and tosses it into Quackity’s startled grasp.

“Oh. Thanks, but ya know, watch out next time, maybe? Hey, do you think we could just play a song- and call it like, ‘Please Stop Being A Demon, Wilbur, It’s Really Killing My Vibes,’ or something and that could work?” Quackity dumps the satchel open on the table and a stack of books slide out.

Fundy looks up from his paper and quill and gives a deadpan glare.

“Really. You think that might work? You’ve been reading this shit for an hour now, and you think an oddball ide-”

“Call it ‘Me No Gusta Demons.”

Tommy interrupts. He blinks at all the lost looks he’s getting and flushes a bit. “The- the song.”

Quackity ends up laughing and sinking to the floor before Tommy joins in and Tubbo snickers as he pushes the new books towards Fundy.

“Any of these look useful?”

Fundy turns his attention to the pile and starts skimming.

“And- And the song just starts out with a really long, really loud scream, and at the end you just-” Tommy is grinning as he speaks and Quackity finishes,

“Just smash the fucking guitar into the ground!”

Wiping his eyes in restrained laughter, Tubbo notices Fundy still before pulling out a worn, navy blue journal out of the bottom of the stack of books.

“What’s that?” He asks, and Fundy doesn’t answer, but meets his eyes and then looks back at the book.

On the cover is an image of a codfish embossed into the leather, and slightly smeared inked doodles in black ink- a guitar, a torch, an orca whale and a sigil Tubbo remembers as the one Wilbur said belonged to the Sky Gods’; as well as a small little L’Manbourgian Flag.

“I think this is Wilbur’s journal.” Fundy seems slightly reverent of the soft leather in his hands. Tubbo would be too.

“I knew he hadn’t been seen writing in it but- I didn’t think.”

Fundy nods and Quackity and Tommy have stopped laughing and seem to realize the tenseness of the other half of the room.

Tommy looks at the journal in Fundy’s hands and gapes. “No way.”

Quackity bites his lips, confused. “What’s that? Is it helpful?”

“It’s Wilbur’s journal. And- It. I think it might be.” Tubbo gestures to Fundy, who widens his eyes and clears his throat before flipping the page.

“If we can find- mentions? Of things that might be helpful. We might be able to guess how long and how severe the possession is, I think. I can start closer to the end.”

Tommy sits heavily in his seat. “Go ahead. Furry.” He tacks on the end, an afterthought.

“Shut the fuck up.” Fundy hisses and begins to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... About that Niki birthday stream...
> 
> 1: holy shit the entire thing was so fucking funny i was dying
> 
> 2: the singing bits were awful and also amazing clap clap
> 
> 3: Bbh was hilarious for a decent chunk wow
> 
> 4: AWDKSKAOS WENT FROM 0 TO 100 VERY FAST IN THE 'LETS BLOW UP LMANBERG' WHIM WILBUR GOT LMAO ALSO WE HAVES DEADLINE 4 BLOWING UP??? EXPLOSIONS AFTER FRIDAY??? YEAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> 5: Niki's birthday and the song was sung to everyone else first hahahahahaaaaa
> 
> 6: My first full stream watching Karl Jacobs and did not regret, he is very good yesss
> 
> 6: ok actually wtf were Quackity and Wilbur on my soul left my body every time they had some weird bit
> 
> like the smoking  
> or the stripping  
> and whatever the fuck the weird making out was wtf  
> also Wilbur's give me attention is a mood
> 
> Next chapter we get some Wilbur POV wooooooo + pain


	6. Chapter 5; or Entries in the Journal of the Possessed Ex-President

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF GOD IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK THIS LONG JESUS
> 
> Next chapter we should be seeing Dream in person!! ( : ) )

Wilbur’s hands haven’t been working the same anymore.

  
  
They instinctively curl into a loose fist, fingers crooked and held closer to his chest. He has to purposefully ensure they’re at his sides every time he passes by Techno or Tommy in these small cave walls, and by then his head is buzzing and his vision blurred and he doesn’t know what he’s saying.

Sometimes he can feel the words drip thick and dark like honey, taste the bitterness and doubt in everyone, because Wilbur knows what doubt tastes like.

  
  
It’s constantly sliding down his throat, choking and heavy. His hands aren’t the only thing Wilbur is afraid of when he looks in the mirror.

  
  
Because he can’t look in the mirror, and does not know why. It becomes another blur, another -wake up and you’re in a small stone room filled with gunpowder and a single button, choking on blood and bile.

  
So Wilbur does not look in mirrors anymore, as it’s already so hard to not end up in a river for no reason every night this week.

  
  
Wilbur writes this sentence, but his hand twinges and curls of its own accord and drags his nails through the ink and smears them. The marks left are not dissimilar from a cat’s swipe, but larger and the cat knows they’re scratching.

  
  
Wilbur hears the voice louder and louder but his hand keeps trying to scrawl it down before he blanks-

  
  
“The handwriting deteriorates and there’s claw marks here. And- something about ‘voice louder and louder’, I think, when it stops.” Fundy looks emotionally exhausted from this one entry, and Tommy seems startled to learn Wilbur was possessed since early days of Pogtopia, eyes slightly red and face flushed.

Tubbo’s eyes trace the page, trying to read but only looking back at the horrible gouge of black ink across creamy paper.

“So- He really doesn’t remember what he says. The Dreamon literally takes over his consciousness, but most of what I’ve read says that they typically just influence the emotions and actions of their host.”

The words seem to weave a terrifying picture, the tapestry behind Wilbur’s madness.

“Well- Just- Keep reading, right?” Quackity’s face is grim and his voice shakes ever slightly.

“Yeah.” Fundy skips forwards a few pages. “This is one of the last long ones.”

Tubbo says Schlatt has an announcement in a week or so. Wilbur doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Or whatever else is around him, because he knows now, he knows for certain there is something definitely wrong, and plans to try once again to get rid of- talk to? Do something about whatever spirit is around him, making him wake up from his nightmares only to find himself moving as if on a string, blink from one second chopping a tree to another where Tommy stares at him confused and in the midst of a conversation he doesn’t have the script for.

And the blood. And what he’s 70% sure are claws, growing from the tips of his-

( _The sentence scrawled is halted suddenly and a drop of some crimson liquid is smeared over the last words._ )

What was he writing about?

Scripts, right.

He’s planned out a script of sorts, for the séance he’s going to hold when the night falls. It’s not his first with this particular spirit tagging along, even alone. But ever since last time his- ~~this~~ – has gotten worse and Wilbur’s afraid it might be truly malevolent. He knows that it talks to him and he talks back, when it takes over his head. He just can’t remember. 

Barring that, today he’d watched as the last section of the L’Manberg walls finally came down. He didn’t tell Tommy, and sat alone at the top of a hill and felt as though something was ripping out his heart.

Tubbo was a few feet away talking to  ~~ SCHLATT ~~ . 

( _The pen lines here are gouged in deep and thick with excess ink._ )

Fundy had pulled the rubble away.

Niki wasn’t around. She didn’t stop it either.

Wilbur’s last few dreams asides from the  memories of bombs and knives and watching himself for some reason lit by orange firelight and  smiling so wide  ~~ HAPPY, ~~ have been the voice speaking to him,  small snippets of conversations he can’t really hear. 

So Wilbur doesn’t like to sleep. So he doesn’t.

Tonight, he plans to talk with the spirit, open the area around him and hopefully convince it to leave him alone. But at the second, Tommy and Techno are calling for him. Jots down a to-do.

- _Speak to Dream’s spirit about why it’s following him/haunting him_ _now_ _._

He signs off. He wishes himself luck.

“ _Dream’s_ spirit? _”_ Tommy now splutters, snatching the blue leather journal from Fundy’s loose grasp. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Hold on, hold on. What happens after he talks to the spirit?” Tubbo feels his heart thudding and stomach slick with dread.

Quackity meets Tubbo’s gaze, creases at the edge of his eyes and asks, “Is this spirit- or what Wilbur thinks is a spirit- is it the same one as the Dreamon? And did he really try to ‘open’ himself up to it? Because that sounds like a really bad thing.”

“Probably.” Fundy looks dazed, one hand pulling at the collar of his shirt. “What’s on the nest page?”

The group turns to look at Tommy, who blinks back and then down to the book in his hands. He turns the page, cautious and almost afraid to see what’s there.

His eyes widen and shoulders stiffen.

“Tommy?” Tubbo takes a step forwards and looks over his shoulder.

There are  hand-prints so strange, mostly inky  black, but with telltale crimson leaking in. 

“Fuck-” Fundy sounds strangled.

A cross both pages, the words ‘ _HOW TO SAVE THEM ALL_ :’ are scrawled in large blocky print.

Tommy flips the pages, fingers visibly trembling and  he sets the books down on the table they’re all crowded around. 

There’s detailed plans of ley lines and redstone circuits in both Wilbur’s familiar hand and then there’s sigils and messy sketches of incomprehensible anatomy labeling. 

Tubbo steps back, head buzzing with thoughts and theories and implications, shaking his head slowly. His fingers are slightly tingly.

Tommy flips to the last written page. In the middle of some kind of demonic script, a doodle of a familiar mask lays beside the only English words on the page;

‘ _To Do Before Festival;_

_-Say hullo to Dream._ ’

“And- that night, that was when Wilbur went all- you know. And he met with Dream- I never-” Tommy is stuttering, hands kneading into fists repeatedly.

“Oh god.” Tubbo hears his own voice as he sinks to his knees. “Wilbur never read much of his demon books- just that one ghost grimoire he liked. If he tried to open himself up to a demon, then- God, Wilbur’s going to get completely possessed, isn’t he?”

Tommy stumbles away from the journal on the table and drops beside Tubbo, hand finding his and squeezing.

“I never even thought. Guessed.” He says so quietly. Quackity sits on the floor, crossed legs, beside them.

Fundy is the last to join them on the floor, but  grabs Wilbur’s  journal first. “ Well, we might be able to see what Wilbur meant when he wrote ‘Dream’s spirit,’ at least.” 

“Yeah.” Quackity answers for Tubbo and Tommy.

T he group is silent once more, the sound of shuffling of pages the only noise. Fundy makes a sound under his breath, but flips more pages.

After a second, he turns to Tubbo, who meets his eyes.

“Wilbur’s- He’s been _friends_ with Dream since before the election. And- It sounds like Dream might’ve been haunted- not possessed, just haunted, by the same Dreamon.”

“What?” Tommy’s voice cracks.

Dream showed up a few hours before midnight, just as he’d promised. Every time Wilbur ended up waiting on that little hill, the one with a single tree standing short but evergreen, he felt his stomach swirl with unease, wondering if Dream wouldn’t show up at all and if Wilbur would shudder in the cold for no end. 

  
  
But he had shown up, and as had become the pattern, Wilbur st ands from his seat on the grass,  Dream pull s  his mask off his face  and the pair merely bump shoulders and grin. 

  
  
“ How’s L’Manchildberg going?” Dream  asks , but with a crinkle to his mossy green eyes and  he grab s  Wilbur’s wrist and flop s onto the grass, pulling Wilbur with him. 

“Ughf-”

The grass  is  soft and cool under Wilbur’s hands, and he tug s  his wrist from Dream’s grasp and s i t s up. 

“Good, I think. How’re you doing, Dream?”

“Good.” Dream sounds unsure.

“Hmm.” The sky is glittering with stars, and Wilbur pulls his glasses from his pocket to see them clearly. “And- Eret’s doing all right?” The question is gentle, but genuine. Wilbur still doesn’t want to speak, exactly, to Eret, but he wants to know they’re okay. 

“Yeah, he’s doing fine.”

The subject is dropped, but satisfied.

Dream shifts, still on his back gazing at the stars, and Wilbur feels a prickle of cold at his spine. It’s familiar, from when he’d fucked around with ghosts, listening to spirit boxes skip and letting Tubbo and Fundy watch while he put on more of a show, faux-reverent and mystic.

“There’s a ghost ‘round here.” Wilbur says to the sky.

Dream seems to jolt to attention,  eyes wide . “What?”

Wilbur hums under his breath, and turns to Dream. “Ghosts, you know? They come past and do that little icy touch down your spine? Before- the fighting- I used to talk to ghosts. Hold small little seances, had a spirit box- Tommy broke that, he’s a skeptic. Tubbo and Fundy used to watch me do them.”

A breeze blows and Wilbur leans into it and lets his bangs be tossed about. Dream’s hair ends up in his own mouth and he splutters besides Wilbur’s slightly more majestic pose.

“So- you can talk to ghosts? Could you- Make them go away?” Dream’s question sounds much too hushed to be simply intrigued.

Wilbur blinks. “Are you being haunted?”

Dream flushes and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I mean- Yeah. Not much in the daytime, or even physical things, but- Nightmares, I think.”

“Oh.” Wilbur feels a small flicker of amusement and reaches for his satchel laying on the grass. Pulls out his ‘Guide to Ghosts’ from beside his journal and chuckles. “I guess I came prepared.”

“Wow.”

“Yup. We can probably wait a few days though, I like seances on the new moon.” Wilbur tosses the grimoire into Dream’s hands, who looks baffled.

“I- really?”

“Why not?” Wilbur knows his smile is smug, and gestures to the book in Dream’s hands. “You might want to have a read-through, ghosts are interesting and shit, and as long as you bring that back on the new moon, I should be able to talk to whatever ghost you’ve got.”

Dream looks completely stunned and confused and just slightly overwhelmed. “Right. Yeah.”

“For now though, we can just chill. Forget ghosts, when we’re probably lucky to be alive right now. There’s a lot more life out here, right?”

Dream nods and tucks the grimoire into his own bag. Lays back down on the grass and Wilbur follows suit.

It’s a lot nicer, the peace times, versus the cold fronts and constant guard and paranoia that still tries to follow Wilbur like a ghost of his own.

Wilbur breathes in deep, cold air soothing and ceasing the buzzing in one ear caused from the bombs- slowly healing, but it’s worse when he’s worried. Out here, all is quiet, all is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW the 16th will not likely have any canon bits for this fic hahhahahahahah (i am passing away- please let Wilbur be the traitor please; kudos to charge, bookmarks to cast)
> 
> I am in the midst of planning two entirely different Traitor! Wilbur aus :) (one SHOULD be finished within like- the next 2 days i hope)
> 
> Also I wrote a fic where god!Dream switches places/roles with dead!wilbur fic, it’s based off of an animatic!! Go read? If u want, idk its called You Look Like Nothing That You've Ever Seen Before (You Died)

**Author's Note:**

> SO!
> 
> Updates are not timed, and may be slow, terribly sorry! 
> 
> Go in the comments and yell at me about fuckin rad au ideas yeaaaa


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